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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29532093">sending all my love to you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneygremlins/pseuds/sydneygremlins'>sydneygremlins</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dean in the trench coat, Don't Have to Know Canon, Getting Together (kinda), M/M, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, a painful amount of repression, castiels trench coat is the ONLY valid part of this show, no ties to canon, not timeline specific, touch starvation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 13:29:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29532093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneygremlins/pseuds/sydneygremlins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>written for a valentines day event! the request was destiel and dean wearing the trench coat. soooo uhhhh pspspspsps come here hellers &lt;3</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Destiel fics I like</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sending all my love to you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>thank you ian for beta’ing!! and thank u reader for clicking!!</p><p>enjoy :P</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>That time of year thou mayst in me behold</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In me thou see'st the twilight of such day</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As after sunset fadeth in the west,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Which by and by black night doth take away,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As the death-bed whereon it must expire,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>To love that well which thou must leave ere long.</em>
</p><p>Sonnet 73, William Shakespeare</p><p> </p><p>The trees are heavy with wilting leaves the colour of flames. At a glance, one might assume — and forgivably so — that the woods are on fire. Wind rushes through the canopy, setting the boughs aquiver, the sound like the crackling of fire.</p><p>But the wind is cold; it bites at Dean’s exposed skin and numbs his hands. Maybe it would be better if he still had a coat on, but thanks to the last, scrabbling attempts to escape by a shapeshifter mid–shifting and drenched in blood, his flannel and jacket were utterly fucked up. He’d stripped them off a while ago, wincing when the gooey bits stuck to his skin, and disposed of them, not realising how cold he’d be later.</p><p>He shifts on the park bench again. Sam is only fifteen minutes away on his supply run, by Dean’s best guess. Just a little longer, he tells himself, just a little longer before he can be nice and warm in the Impala, heater and music both blasting. </p><p>A little smile creeps onto his face at the thought. Yeah. That’ll be nice. Maybe he’ll listen to some Green Day or something — something full of energy for the long ride back home. He’ll sing along loudly, Sam will sigh and Cas will give him a confused look, and he’ll feel right at home.</p><p>The fantasy is brushed away in one swift movement by another gust of wind. Dean shivers, then takes a whirl at distracting himself with something else.</p><p>Cas is sitting on the other end of the bench, hunched over, hands clasped in his lap. He’s been staring at the tree a few yards away for the past five minutes, unmoving, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood. </p><p>Dean traces the lines of Cas’ profile with his eyes appreciatively — the guy isn’t half bad–looking, all soft brows and stubbly lips, hair curling at his temples and the blue in his irises muted in the wooded shade. There’s a slight tension in his brow, a little tangle of thought creasing his eyes, and Dean wants to smooth his hands over it, run fingers down his cheeks and follow the line of his jaw, but he can’t. As much as he wants to so desperately, Dean can’t touch him.</p><p>Dean bites his lip and steers away from that train of thought. </p><p>He casts around for something else, anything else, something that won’t make his chest ache with want, but he can’t find anything.</p><p>That’s why when Cas sighs and straightens up, Dean is hopeful that maybe he’s gonna strike up some conversation, keep his mind off the cold —</p><p>But Cas just shrugs out of his trench coat, gathers it up, and holds it out towards Dean.</p><p>“What?” Dean says, eyes flicking between Cas’ hands and his face, which, frustratingly, does not betray any emotion.</p><p>“You’re cold,” Cas says, matter–of–factly, almost like he’s informing Dean of it. When he continues, “Take it,” there’s a note of fondness in his voice.</p><p>Dean’s face heats, and he tells himself, quite sternly, that it does not make any feelings obvious in the slightest. People blush from the cold all the time. This is normal. He can’t tell. “Nah, I’m good,” he grins a little awkwardly, shaking his head minutely.</p><p>Cas shakes his head, expression unwavering. “You’re cold,” he repeats, and presses the coat into Dean’s hands.</p><p>Dean looks up, the beginnings of a refusal on his tongue, but Cas’ gaze is steady and insistent. He takes it from Cas, trying not to let it unfold, with only mumbled protests that go ignored. </p><p>Dean rolls his eyes, but gratitude blooms warm in his chest when he slips the coat on.</p><p>It’s been a while since Dean wore a trench coat — not since he tried one on as a joke in a thrift store in Philly, much to the amusement of Sam — so the feel of wearing it is unfamiliar, but it’s oddly comforting, too. There’s a ghost of warmth along the sleeves that he can’t quite tell is the product of wishful thinking or not, but it’s nice to imagine that it’s the remnants of Cas’ body heat, as much as that exists for an angel in a human vessel.</p><p>Characters in sappy romance chick flicks go on about people’s clothes having their scent — shirts as pillowcases and saving old clothing when an ex leaves are prime examples — but Cas doesn’t really have a scent, angel mojo and all. Even so, his trench is so closely entwined with him, is so well–lived in and well–loved that it feels almost like a hug from the man himself, like Dean is surrounded with purely Castiel. Now that sounds like heaven.</p><p>At that thought, Dean can’t help but smile, and he nestles into the trench, bringing his shoulders up a little so it drapes around him nicely and pressing his cheek into the collar. He doesn’t realise how weird it must look to Cas until he’s fixed with that all–too–familiar blue stare, with that equally familiar wrinkle of puzzlement between his eyebrows an adjunct.</p><p>“Uhh,” Dean begins. Words die in his throat. People don’t just snuggle into their friend’s coats. It’s not a normal thing that people do.</p><p>Unaware of the distress jackrabbiting in Dean’s chest, Cas simply tilts his head and asks, “Are you still cold?”</p><p>Oh. </p><p>It’s a welcome relief, but even for that, Dean stutters over his, “Yeah — a bit — I guess —”</p><p>Cas blinks once, slowly, then moves across the length of the bench to sit right next to Dean, and, as if Dean isn’t already dead enough from the warm line of contact along where their thighs are pressed together, puts an arm around him.</p><p>Dean’s pulse rockets to probably unhealthy heights, and he can just about hear it pounding in his ears, and Cas is just so casually leaning on him, and — oh. There’s the fire.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u for reading!! consider leaving kudos or a comment ? 🥺👉👈</p></blockquote></div></div>
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